Absalom
by Nikapi
Summary: In Sunnydale the end comes first with a bang, then with a whimper, then with nothing. No ship, character deaths, S7.


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Absalom

Nikapi

Disclaimer: No character named, referenced to, or suggested in this story belongs to me. Neither do any of the cannon situations referred to. All names, characters, etc. are property of Joss Whedon, FOX, ME, and whoever else has a claim to them.

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O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! 

would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, 

my son, my son!

-- Samuel, The Story of King David and Absalom, 11:1-19:4

He sees nothing. He clings to memories of sunlight and fresh air and blues and greens. They don't help, only drift further the more he tries to grasp at them, become removed and alien, like someone else's life.

He should be uncomfortable, as well as he can reason, anyway. He's not. He used to be, before the blessed numbness spread from his legs, crawling up his back and down his arms until even if he was unbound he wouldn't be able to move anyway. He's not sure if he's glad or not.

He thinks of the basement. Not this one, but the old one, of the boiler room. He thinks of Jack, desperate in those last few seconds. He thinks of his own panic, barely held in check. Of the prayers racing through his mind and jumbling together past recognition. Our Father, full of grace, forever and ever --

He thinks of his own words. He thinks of the quiet, of liking it, craving it once. Of associating it with calm, normalcy.

He thinks of Andrew. Toys with the idea of blaming him, but can't bring himself to it. Recalls him talking in the dark, further away than some of the others. Talking to the girls, to himself. Just talking.

He thinks of heavy footsteps and mutters in guttural tongues. He thinks of Andrew talking again. Begging. He thinks of the steady sound of dragged weight. He thinks of the hand grasping his ankle for a split second before being tugged away.

He thinks of mornings with no cereal, no milk, no eggs, no coffee. He thinks of grocery runs at all hours, of pizza bills consuming paychecks in leaps and bounds. He thinks of sleeping bags everywhere. Anywhere. He thinks of Kennedy sprawled at the top of the stairs. Of Molly crying. Of Rona's neck. Like Jenny's; like how he imagined it must have looked like.

He thinks of Faith, too little, too late, to ill prepared. He thinks of tangled sheets and soft skin. He thinks of being steered around curves he didn't know existed. Of hands around his neck. Of lightening quick moves slowly becoming too slow, too tired. Of a last glimpse of a tattoo before she was overwhelmed.

He thinks of church on Saturday mornings. When he was a child. Of CCD classes and communion and his mother and her pretty dresses she would only wear one a week. He thinks of hating the kneeling part, of his knees aching and his arms not being high enough to fold across the top of the next pew. Of the private games made out of watching those around him, checking to see who really knew the prayers and the songs, and who only pretended. He thinks of church again, more recently. First alone. Then with Dawn. Then Vi. Then Giles; Buffy; more and more of the girls, one week at a time. Even Willow, just once.

He thinks of Anya, of hungry kisses and sharp tongues and wedding dresses. He thinks of frat houses and smashed necklaces and basement rendezvous. Of high, long screams and flailing limbs and ancient curses. Of pooling blood and stained blond hair and glassy eyes. He thinks of bunnies.

He thinks of Dawn. He thinks of her whimpers off to his left. Of her ragged gasps and occasional coughs. Of her murmurs shared with Buffy. Of her breaths growing shallower. Fainter. Softer. Stopping.

He thinks he may be going deaf. He hears nothing but his own heartbeat, and that is distant. Removed.

He thinks of Willow in the doorway. He thinks of her eyes, green, black, green, black again. He thinks of her skin going pale, then white, then gray. He thinks of her sweating, struggling to hold a barrier that was never that effective anyway. He thinks of Barbie and cartoons and red pigtails. Of peanut butter and banana sandwiches and crayons and Jesse. He thinks of her shaking, overstepping her power. He thinks of her collapsing.

He thinks of his Grandmother asking him to read the books of the Bible to her once the cancer sapped her of the strength to do it herself. He thinks of copper, on his lips, in his mouth, coating his face. Liquid copper, dried all over his clothes and making his skin stiff. He thinks of water into wine.

He thinks of noise and crowds and screaming. He thinks of seeing Giles between faces, a few times, not enough. He thinks of Giles suddenly seeming old, tired. He thinks of stepping on a pair of glasses much later. Wondering if they were his. Of wondering if it matters.

He thinks of sarcasm in the darkness, of slurred words and bloodies and wankers and bollocks. Of leather dusters and cigarettes. He thinks of footsteps and flesh smacking flesh. He thinks of taunting in classic style, brutal and fast and almost too British to understand. He thinks of a brief fight. Of the heavy sound of something hitting the ground. Of a loud, pained grunt. Of nothing. Of footsteps again, leaving. He thinks of Buffy's single, barely restrained sob.

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O my son Absalom --

He thinks of golden hair in the early morning, and of painful steel handrails slamming into his stomach. He thinks of ball gowns and little red capes, of stakes and crossbows, of impractical skirts and leather and ever changing hairstyles. Of Buffy. He thinks of her voice, rising and falling with her strength. Of encouraging words, and not so encouraging words. Of forced laughs and determined vows and whispered plans. He thinks of her periodically calling out names one by one, waiting for confirmation that they were still alive. Of her stopping when the list grew painfully short. He thinks of footsteps, more than usual. A large group. He thinks of a shuffling, of a firm, biting order to get their hands away. Of a quiet groan and a shifting of weight. Of small feet slowly but surely righting themselves and walking themselves out of the room. Of defiance to the last minute.

He thinks of the footsteps. Curses them. Remembers them coming each time, alone, in pairs, groups. Collecting the dead, and sometimes the living. Of dragging them away, of occasional hands roughly grabbing him, shaking him, checking for signs of life. Of rough tongues quietly bickering in foreign syllables. 

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would God I had died for thee --

He thinks of girls. 14, 15, 16. Of overalls and ponytails and the random stuffed animal. Of early morning training sessions, and stripped hats. Of giggles, even when it hurt. 

He thinks, he is alone. 

He thinks of the footsteps. No, he hears them. He feels their breath on his face before they touch him. Hands grab him, not checking this time. He is pulled from the wall he had been shoved against, pulled along the floor by his wrists. He closes his eyes when light begins to grow. He does not need to see it again. He does not want to.

He thinks, I am the last. 

He thinks, we tried. 

He thinks, I'm sorry.

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O Absalom, my son, my son!


End file.
